


The Season of Winning

by yrfrndfrnkly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angelina gets last words, Banter, Competitive Eating, Draco is extra, Established Relationship, F/F, Family Drama, First Christmas Together, Fleur loves desserts, Genderfluid Character, Karaoke, Luna runs a sex shop, One-upping, Teddy is a cinnamon bun, Texting, Tonks has a N.E.W.T in partying, Tonks runs a queer group with Teddy and Andromeda, a gross vomit joke, cutesie winter dates, finding the perfect gift at all costs, full frontal feelings, gift shopping, harry loves it, holiday fic, present curses, terrible gift suggestions, wonderful gift suggestions, ‘vintage’ flip phones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21887320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yrfrndfrnkly/pseuds/yrfrndfrnkly
Summary: Fleurwillfind the perfect gift for Tonks and win their first Christmas as a couple
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Nymphadora Tonks
Comments: 12
Kudos: 41





	The Season of Winning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hawksquill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hawksquill/gifts).

> Dear hawksquill, I was thrilled to get this assignment when I saw your signup. I tried to touch on a bunch of the things you asked for, and I really hope you enjoy it! Happy hols to you and yours! <3
> 
> Massive thanks to [ violetclarity ](http://violetclarity.tumblr.com)for the superb beta! <3

**Friday 6 December**

“I am busy!” Fleur calls into the mobile clenched between her right shoulder and ear. Her hands and arms are overloaded—bags hang from both of her bent elbows, more clutched in each hand. She’s close—so close—to finishing her Christmas shopping, and she’s at her wits end with dodging other shoppers, standing in massive queues (she’s lived in England twenty years and she still thinks it’s perverse the way the English relish queueing), and Wham. 

“Great to talk to you too, sis,” Angelina says sarcastically. “Good time for a catch up?” she adds, because getting Fleur going is the easiest thing in the world.

“Only if you have advice about yarn,” Fleur informs Angelina. She’s looking down at a range of yellow yarns in materials as disparate as wool, bamboo, cotton, and silk, and trying to determine which hue is The One. There will be no second best for Tonks—Fleur is determined to give them the perfect present for their inaugural Christmas as a couple. It will be dazzling. It will be meaningful. It will be perfectly suited to Tonks—something that conveys how special they are and how much Fleur knows it. Tonks won’t know what hit them when they unwrap it on Christmas. Fleur is going to pulverise Tonks with her romantic Christmas spirit, damn it!

“I am pleased to report that despite Molly’s best efforts, I never learned any form of textile craft.” Fleur can hear Angelina’s smug beam through the phone. “Why do you need to know about yarn, anyway?”

“I am going to knit Tonks a sweater for Christmas—the perfect sweater. I know these silly Hogwarts houses are important to you all—”

“Nuuupe,” Angelina interrupts.

“Please do not give me a lecture on the many merits of Gryffindor right now. I need to finish all this shopping, and, more importantly, I just do not care.”

“I wasn’t noping your ridiculous French Hogwarts hate,” Angelina parries. “I was noping your idea. You can’t knit Tonks a sweater for your first Christmas together. It’s bad luck. You don’t want to curse things.”

“I thought you didn’t learn anything about needlework,” Fleur accuses.

“I didn’t!” Angelina insists, as though her reputation is on the line. “But I couldn’t help absorbing all the adages. Anyway, I was only kidding. It’s just a silly saying; it doesn’t—”

“Fuck! How am I going to win Christmas now?” Fleur demands, aggrieved and now staring daggers at the assembled skeins as though they personally demolished her best laid plans. An older woman nearby chuckles and another, elbow deep in the undyed linen, calls out a quiet “I hear you.”

Angelina laughs uproariously on the other end of the line. “Win Christmas?”

“You know what I mean,” Fleur says, because it is perfectly normal to want to give the most thoughtful, personalised gift of the season. Especially this one! She cannot let Tonks outdo her. Tonks is a magnificent force of nature and Fleur must show them how much she adores them at all costs. 

“Riiiiight,” says Angelina, “because, as we all know, the true meaning of Christmas is competition. I think Linus says something about that in A Charlie Brown Christmas.”

“I am not in the mood to banter! Unless you have any genius gift ideas, I am hanging up.”

“You _love_ bantering with me!” Angelina counters. She’s not wrong: it took a couple of years for the two of them to find their zone, but Molly’s overbearing attempts to transform them both into her ideals of wifehood was a powerful bonding force. In the shit together, they quickly learned to appreciate one another’s arse kicking and name taking, and began sparring with a spirit of joy and mutual-appreciation. It’s been a relief to Fleur that her and Bill’s divorce did not ruin her relationship with Angelina.

“Honestly, it’ll be fine!” Angelina backpedals. “Are you knitting a black and yellow number? Tonks will love that! Some Big Bee Energy. Although, can you even knit?”

“No. I was going to watch some YouTube videos. How hard can it be? Molly churns out about five dozen a year.”

“Seems pretty ambitious,” Angelina’s voice is sceptical. “Maybe start with a scarf?”

“It is immaterial.” Fleur winces at the accidental pun. “I’m not knitting anything for them this year. It’s our first Christmas together and no curses are invited.”

Angelina sighs. “Sorry I mentioned it. What’s your back up plan?”

“I do not have one!” Fleur exclaims, winding her way out of the yarn shop slowly and carefully to avoid knocking anything or anyone over. “This is a nightmare!”

“Dating, man,” Angelina commiserates.

Fleur scoffs. “We are not sixteen. We are not _dating_.”

“Still though,” Angelina says. 

“Yes, still.” Fleur lets a heavy breath out through her nose. “Any ideas?” she asks.

“Tonks likes pigs,” Angelina offers. “Or, at least, they like turning their nose into a snout.”

Fleur smiles and, if she were English, she might feel like a colossal dork for beaming at the mental image of her new lover sporting a snout for laughs. “I am not buying them a pig, though I concede Tonks would love it.”

“I’m a wellsource of spectacular ideas,” Angelina agrees. “A natural leader. Led Gryffindor to the Quidditch cup—"

“Then give me one I can really use!” Fleur interjects.

“Um…”

“Nevermind,” Fleur says, leaving the shop with the tinkle of a bell and marching up the high street, the soles of her black Blundstones striking the pavement with a purpose. “I can think of something. I _will_ think of something—the _perfect_ something. I am incredibly romantic!”

“Err...” 

“I am!” Fleur insists.

“Dude, just get them some chocolate. You know how ‘we English,’” Angelina affects Fleur’s accent and Fleur hate-admires that she nails it, “‘love Ferrero Rochers.’ Get them one of those pyramids of like a thousand. Or! Brainwave! A calendar with a different snazzy badger for every month.”

“Goodbye, Angelina.” Fleur ends the call. She has hung onto her 2007 flip phone for moments like these—the satisfying snap that rings out merrily when she shuts down nonsense.

The phone buzzes again as Fleur is in the midst of trying to negotiate it into one of her many bags with full hands. She uses her chin to flip it open.

“Manners!” Angelina scolds. “I did call for a reason, you know.”

“Well?” Fleur demands. 

“Molly and Andromeda are having their annual battle over who’s hosting Christmas tea.”

“Those arseholes.” Fleur shakes her head.

“It gets better,” says Angelina, bringer of the goss.

“No,” Fleur says, dreading what she thinks is coming. Since Harry shacked up with Draco a few years ago, Draco’s been making noise about hosting at their place.

“Yes,” Angelina says, with relish. “Molly is livid.” She sounds positively vibrant. “They’re arguing about whether or not it’s fair for Draco to horn in on Molly’s year.”

“Poor Harry.” Fleur spares a thought for The Man Who Is Well and Truly in the Shit Now. She personally doesn’t give a fuck where they celebrate, provided she: 1) doesn’t have to cook anything and 2) gets to eat plates and plates of turkey, mash, mince pies, and rumballs. 

“Harry is acting as Draco’s ambassador; he says there’s no reason that they can’t enter the rotation starting this year. Molly says that’s not fair, since this is her year. Andromeda sent a very pointed owl asking if it would be fairer if it had been her year instead.”

“Petty,” Fleur observes.

“Oh yeah, the mums are really crushing it. But it gets better.”

“Tell me.”

“Harry put his foot down about them entering the rotation and then Draco suggested, since Molly and Andromeda couldn’t stop trying to out-grandma one another for five seconds, that they put it to a family-wide vote this year.”

“That shit disturber,” Fleur chuckles, impressed. 

“It’s a boss move,” Angelina agrees. “Which brings us round to the main reason for my call. Molly’s tasked me with calling everyone in the mobile phone cohort to feel things out and has asked me to inform you personally that she’ll be making mince pies, a spiced orange cheesecake, and a chocolate gateau.”

“That _is_ enticing,” Fleur admits. She’s never met a pie—or dessert, in fact—that she did not like. She hasn’t prioritised looking thin over eating whatever she wants since she was a teenager, and she’s never regretted a single swiss roll. 

She wonders what kinds of enticements Molly is offering to trade for others’ votes. 

“So can she count on your vote?” Angelina jokes.

“Doubtful,” Fleur says. The prospect of a bonus Celestina-free year is as enticing as dessert. Besides, Andromeda also has strong culinary game. She’s never known Draco to cook, but he can thaw out a Sara Lee like nobody’s business. “I have to go, Angelina. I need to hail a cab to take me somewhere I can Apparate. It is packed here.”

“Okay, well our prospective _selfless_ hosts have determined that everyone needs to vote by Sunday so that whoever wins has time to plan. Molly’s calling foul on Draco for bringing this up in December. Let Remus know how you’re voting. He’s declared himself neutral—abstaining from voting and official ballot counter.”

“Typical,” Fleur snorts. This is, after all, the man who had received his walking papers from Tonks when Teddy started primary school for being ‘kind of a bummer.’ “I will talk to you later Angelina. Text me with any campaign developments, will you?”

“Can that dinosaur you insist on using even receive texts?” Angelina jokes.

“Jealous of my vintage wares?” Fleur parries.

“Pft,” Angelina scoffs, then shouts, “last word!” and hangs up.

*

When she returns home, Fleur tosses her shopping onto the sofa and then plonks herself down right in the thick of things. She’s still there later that evening, brainstorming on a bed of lumpy paper bags—bags filled with presents for Harry and Draco and all the children of the extended clan, basically everyone _except_ Tonks—when Tonks Floos into her sitting room.

Fleur jumps up to greet them as Tonks stumbles gracelessly out of the fireplace. Fleur braces them and gives them a kiss hello. With tongue. She’s forty, for pity’s sake. Life’s too long to spend it not Frenching Tonks.

Tonks kisses Fleur back with vigour, and once they part their eyes go wide. “Oh! Bad time?” They slap a hand over their eyes in deference to the veritable heap of Christmas shopping.

“Never,” Fleur assures them, leaning back in again to touch the tip of her tongue fleetingly to Tonks’s nose. “These are for the rest,” Fleur waves dismissively at the pile.

“You’re so on top of things!” Tonks enthuses. “Not even a full week into December yet! I’m a last-minute shopper.”

“Shocking,” Fleur jokes. “How was work?” Fleur takes a seat on the sofa next to the heap and beckons Tonks towards her lap. Tonks sits down side-saddle on Fleur’s lap with their knees bent to avoid the bags. They give Fleur a peck, then lean back into the arm of the sofa.

“Don’t ask,” Tonks faux shudders. After the war Tonks returned to the Aurors to ensure the remaining Death Eaters were rounded up, while Remus took over Teddy duty full time. “It never fails to boggle my mind how many spurned lovers and bitter children think low level Dark Arts are an appropriate response to holiday rows…”

“Do you want to talk about it? Or something else?”

“Something else please!” Tonks smiles. “You up for sexy hijinks?”

A rush of heat scorches its way down Fleur’s spine, settling in her sacrum at Tonks’s words. Sex stuff was fine with Bill, but Fleur has never had a lover as candid as Tonks. It’s the sexiest thing she’s ever encountered. “Absolutement,” she answers, because Tonks gets all blushy when Fleur agrees to sex en français. 

“The couch is a bit cramped.” Tonks prods a bag with a toe. They frown for a moment, face a pastiche of deep consideration.

“What is it?” Fleur asks.

“My impulses towards laziness and being comfortable are at odds,” Tonks informs her in grave tones. “Get out of your lap and go all the way upstairs, to bed? Involves moving, but has the bonus of comfort. Or collapse onto the floor here so you can fuck me on the hard tile?”

At the words ‘fuck me,’ Fleur manoeuvres Tonks so that they’re straddling her, then stands up. Tonks holds on around her neck, thighs resting above Fleur’s hips. Fleur lowers them both to the floor.

“Oh!” Tonks calls out as Fleur is pulling off their trousers. “Forgot to mention—mum says a vote for her is a vote for succulent Christmas goose instead of Molly’s dry turkey.” 

They both laugh as they get down to business.

*

**Saturday 7 December**

_You up?_

_Fleur?_

_Fleur??_

_Hello? _

_Why don’t you get a new fucking phone that fucking_ works?!

Fleur wakes up next morning to an armful of naked Tonks and a persistent buzzing on the nightstand. She reaches for her phone with her free arm slowly, not wanting to wake Tonks.

_Draco, it’s Saturday morning!_ Fleur responds. _Where’s the Fiendfyre?!_

_In Molly’s accursed Christmas hearth on the 25th, if she has her way. Do you want to spend_ another_ Christmas listening Celestina’s 1988 concert? Because it’s more than I can bear._

_What do you want me to do about it?_ Fleur demands. _I’m already going to vote for your place._

_I knew I could count on you._

_I am loyal to_ Harry.

_OK Puffer. Look, I’m renting a karaoke machine; Blaise suggested it—all ages fun with the extra bonus of magical music (read: Celestina) being right off the menu. We can do carols, divas, glam—whatever._

_I already said I was voting for you! I’m trying to cuddle Tonks and you’re spoiling it with your histrionics._

_Excuse you. These are machinations, not histrionics._

_*Eye roll*_

_Admit it, the karaoke machine is a stroke of genius._

_You’ll clinch George, Angelina, and most of the Gen Zs,_ Fleur admits.

_And Hermione—she’s a sucker for my powerful rendition of La Isla Bonita._

_We all love that. _

_We do_, Draco affirms, and Fleur knows him well enough by now to feel the fondness for their group shenanigans through the simple sentence. She wasn’t sure what to make of Draco when he and Harry first started things up. But she hasn’t doubted Harry since he was fourteen, and anyway, she and Draco bonded readily over the heinous trial of being partnered to Molly Weasley’s precious children (biological and adopted). They have a monthly meetup with Angelina to compare notes, air grievances, and commiserate.

_Oh! Angelina shattered my plans for Tonks’s perfect Christmas gift. Got any suggestions? _

_Ah yes, the old first Christmas. So important to win that one._

_Yes! Thank you! Angelina didn’t get it at all! Can you believe it?_

_Gryffindors, honestly. _

_So—ideas?_

_Go big or go home. Fabergé egg. Expensive, timeless, elegant. Untoppable._

_Forget I asked._

Fleur closes her phone slowly and quietly, places it next to her on the bed so it doesn’t vibrate so loudly, and rolls back onto her side, spooning Tonks and enjoying the sunshiney warm smell of their neck.

*

**Sunday 8 December**

Sunday dinner at the Burrow is a tense affair this week. Molly swings between passive aggressive remarks about how _everybody_ knows that food-based holidays have always been _her_ thing and flagrant bribery, taking any opportunity to remind everyone at the table that all of their favourites will be well supplied. 

“Of course, I always go overboard, but I do like sending everyone home with leftovers,” she tells Arthur, as though he would ever do anything as disloyal as vote for Draco or Andromeda.

Fleur doesn’t understand why it’s so important to Molly, Andromeda, and Draco to host. As long as everyone is together, she fails to see the difference. She’s never really understood Molly’s need to feed, to nurture. It doesn’t bother her; she just could not relate less. Sure, Fleur is caring, and she thinks she’s a good mother, but she has never slotted in with the conventional idea of maternal. She tried. She hated it. She likes caring for her loved ones, but as she found her feet in Victoire’s early years, she discovered her version involves less force feeding and coddling and more adventuring, quality time, and mutual, light-hearted heckling. 

Still, these people around the table became Fleur’s family over the course of fifteen years of marriage, and that hasn’t stopped. Harry had made a point of telling her he wants her around _for her_, that she was never just ‘Bill’s wife’ to him. Fleur cried, hugged him, and kept coming—stuck around, even after Bill went back to Egypt. She’ll die before she lets Harry Potter down.

“Molly’s fighting a losing battle,” Harry mutters into her ear from his spot next to her. 

“Karaoke,” she whispers back, nodding.

“Karaoke,” Harry affirms, philosophically.

“It’s good to have something everyone can enjoy together, regardless of age,” Fleur says.

“Yeah,” Draco agrees, leaning in from his spot on the other side of Harry. “Blaise says having a few activities rolling throughout the night helps keep the atmosphere more fun for the crew members who don’t drink.”

Fleur nods, acknowledging the point. “What else have you two got up your sleeves, then?”

“Well,” Harry looks shiftily up to the end of the table where Molly is telling George her idea to have a Christmas day competition to see who can write the best cracker joke. The look on George’s face speaks volumes about what he thinks of his loved ones’ quipping abilities. With Molly thoroughly distracted, Harry continues, “Ron is way too loyal to vote for anyone aside from Molly… Unless.”

“Unless?” Fleur prods.

“Pie eating competition—mince pie, to stay on theme,” Draco elaborates. 

“Loves a theme, this one.” Harry leans into Draco’s side fondly.

“I love a pie,” Fleur riffs, grinning. 

“So does Ron,” Draco observes. 

“Draco thinks the way to his vote is through his stomach.”

Fleur thinks that Draco might be giving himself a fighting chance of the Ron vote. She also knows she’s going to annihilate Ron at pie eating.

“Hold,” she tells them. “I need to text an Auror about a pie.”

_Christmas day. Harry and Draco’s. Pie eating competition._ Tonks replies a few minutes later, clearly not currently occupied by criminally Dark Magic. This pleases Fleur.

_You’ve got it in the bag. I’ve _seen_ you eat a pie. You’re a force of nature. Hot._

_*Bows*_

_Anyway, they had me at Karaoke. Prepare to be wooed by my Elvis Christmas Carol moves._

_Colour me wooed,_ Fleur responds. _Should put phone away. At table. _

_See ya, Veela!_

Fleur laughs and apologises for getting her phone out. “Overeager at the prospect of combining my loves of eating and demolishing my competitors. Had to text Tonks to inform their vote.” She smiles cheekily. “And secure _you_ one more,” she appends, addressing Draco directly.

“No one’s beating karaoke _and_ competitive eating,” Draco assures them both.

They all chuckle. 

“Anyway, how are things going?” Harry asks Fleur.

“With Tonks?”

Harry and Draco both nod like a couple of nosey parkers eager for a gossip bonanza.

“Well, we fucked on my living room floor like a couple of twenty-year olds yesterday,” Fleur shares, unembarrassed. She’s talking to fellow adults, fellow parents, fellow queer people. She spent enough time denying her desires after she and Bill split, not wanting to complicate her life with a new relationship. The divorce had been amicable, but it was still a Thing. One of the things she loves most about Tonks—has admired for so long—is their candour, their humour, the way they always seem able to find a way to say what they need to, even when it is something heavy, something hard, something raw or rough. 

After Teddy went to Hogwarts, Tonks came out as genderfluid. Part of what Fleur found so brave was how Tonks would talk with their circle of friends about how they’d kept it to themselves for so long: they’d already come out as pan, they already were nothing like their mother expected (and they do love their mother, even if she can be a pain). They hadn’t wanted to bring more family drama to Andromeda’s doorstep. But Tonks often talks about how important it was for them to remember that their identity isn’t drama. In the end, Andromeda took it well, and co-founded M.A.G.E. (Magical-people for the Affirmation Gender Expression) with Tonks and Teddy—a support group for queer folks and their families. 

Fleur is pretty sure that Andromeda loves Tonks way too much to have made a sow’s ear out of Tonks coming out, but she’s equally sure that Tonks found the right words, the right tone. Their earnestness is staggering: it’s something they have in common with Harry, and Fleur has always admired it in both of them. Fleur has no problem with bluntness, but she could temper it with kindness more, instead of making it an offensive tactic. She wants more of that—that ability to wear her heart on her sleeve—in her life, and not just by being around Tonks. She wants to grow and be better. She hopes that they can both do better and better together.

Harry’s cheeks colour a bit at the mention of floor fucking, but he soldiers on. “So pretty good, then.”

Draco just nods in approval, as though to say: not bad.

Fleur doesn’t blush. “Of course, things are still at that early stage.”

They give her nostalgic nods, clearly harkening back their own early-relationship sex frenzy.

“But it is not only that. When they come through the Floo, I am happy. When they tell jokes and pull faces, I am happy. When they complain about work or ask for help with M.A.G.E., I am happy.”

“Young love,” Harry chuckles, punching Fleur lightly on the arm.

“We are not spring chickens anymore,” Fleur rebuts.

“Love, then,” Harry says simply, not bothering with platitudes about how forty is the new thirty or negating their age. They are getting older, and, as far as Fleur is concerned, life is getting better. When she looks at Harry and Draco, all their kids forging their own ways in the world, she thinks she’s right.

“I think so.” She doesn’t feel giggley, nor solemn. She feels right with the world.

Draco nods in approval.

“So,” Harry’s voice signals a subject change. “Have you decided on a present? Draco said you were considering a Fabergé egg and, I mean… that’s a terrible idea.”

“It’s a tasteful gift,” Draco asserts.

“It’s a gaudy gift,” Harry counters. “And anyway, this is Tonks. It would be broken before they got it out of the box.”

Draco looks stricken at the very possibility.

“I am _not_ getting a Fabergé egg,” Fleur vows. “I still have to think of something, though. It must be perfect. I wanted to make them something, something that would really punch them in the heart, you know?” Fleur emphasises the point by slugging her clenched right fist into her left palm.

“I hear you,” Harry says. “I mean, _anyone_ can buy an expensive broomstick—”

“Personal attack!” Draco accuses. “And you _love_ that fucking broom. Don’t even bother to pretend you don’t.”

“Yes dear,” Harry snarks in a nasal tone, but his eyes are twinkling. Sparring must be like foreplay for them. “I _do_ love it. I’m just saying that anyone with gold can think to buy a broom. Only a really _thoughtful_ partner would think to take six months of pottery lessons to throw a sauerkraut crock _by hand_ when his partner was going through his fermenting phase.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Draco waves a hand dismissively. “So you won _one_ year.”

“Well then?” Fleur demands, stopping them before they can hit their stride. “Do either of you virtuosic gift givers have any _real_ suggestions?”

“Donation to M.A.G.E?” Draco suggests.

“Better than some tacky egg,” Fleur admits, “but too impersonal. It must be for _them_.”

Draco is piping up to defend his cherished eggs when Harry cuts him off. “Concert tickets?” 

“That is at least worth considering. But this year it should be something that lasts, I think. Something they can hold and know I gave it to them. This has to be a Christmas gift Tonks never forgets, damn it! Our first Christmas _will_ be special.” She bangs her hand down on the table and seals the pledge with violent determination.

*

**Monday 9 December**

On Monday morning, Remus circulates the news that Draco won the vote. His note is polite and neutral. It does not reveal what Fleur suspects: that Draco won by a landslide. 

Fleur smiles at the news. She may not have the perfect gift for Tonks yet, but at least now she can concretely look forward to taking all comers in a pie eating contest.

She’s going to eat pie. She’s going to win. She’s going to see Tonks on their respective lunch breaks today, at which point Fleur will take careful note of everything Tonks says in case something offers gift-related inspiration. Things are looking good.

At lunch, Fleur meets Tonks at a small pub where Fleur orders steak and ale pie and Tonks gets a shepherd’s pie. 

“Great news about Christmas,” Tonks says, between rushed bites of pie. An hour is just not long enough.

“Yes. I am relieved. No Celestina.” 

“It sounds like a proper party,” Tonks enthuses—ever the extrovert. “And, I mean,” they place a hand on their chest and assume a pose of lofty superiority, “I _am_ an expert on what constitutes a party. I always felt I ought to have received a N.E.W.T. in partying for my services rendered to the Hufflepuff Common Room.”

“I can imagine,” Fleur says, smiling at the mental image of Tonks rocking out with other chilled out Hogwarts students.

“Did you have a lot of fun at Beauxbatons?” Tonks asks.

“The castle is even further from settlements than Hogwarts,” Fleur tells them. “There was nowhere to get supplies, after whatever students brought with them ran out.”

“Unimaginative,” Tonks scolds lightly. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way! Besides, what do you need for a party except people?”

“Booze?” Fleur shrugs. “Music?”

Tonks waves the suggestions aside with one hand, mash and lamb flying off the fork they’re holding. “Oops!” 

Fleur dives towards the floor, napkin in hand, with the honed reflexes of a parent and picks it up so it’s not left to the staff.

“Thanks.” Tonks reaches across the table and puts their hand on Fleur’s once Fleur is back in her seat upright. “Where were we?” they ask, after a moment of sappy contact.

“You were schooling my square arse in how to party,” Fleur prompts, eager to hear more about Tonks as a teenager.

“Ah yes,” Tonks nods sagely. “I mean, first off, you definitely don’t need booze for a party. Call me a kook, but I think things are more fun when people aren’t barfing, crying, or saying things they regret.”

Fleur laughs. “Fair enough. So what then, to bring people together?”

“Anything!” Tonks enthuses. “If some knob head brings a guitar to school with him—and some knob head _always_ does, and it’s _always_ a him, have a singalong to Undone. That’s a party classic! Or, in an instrumental pinch, _a capella_ Bohemian Rhapsody! Dance battle! Dramatic readings from bodice rippers—someone’s always got those handy. Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock! Or keep it simple: a veggie platter and a group catch up. There’s no end of conversation starters. Hawaiian pizza: yay or nay? If you could go back in time and assassinate Hitler, who would be your posse? What would your three items be to hit the road with for a zombie apocalypse. What’s everyone’s OTP?”

Tonks continues their tangent, explicating in great detail the many and varied overlooked ways to have an impromptu Good Time. The minutes whizz by for Fleur, who takes in Tonks’s _joie de vivre_ even more hungrily than her steak and ale pie.

*

Back at her desk, Fleur is brimming with good vibes from her lunch with Tonks. She kind of wishes she had met Tonks when they were both younger, had seen Tonks leading their classmates in an evocative imitation of Freddie Mercury, or just lounging around munching on carrot sticks, finding out whether or not she’d rank on Tonks’s list of fellow Hitler assassins.

It would have been fun, but if it’s and buts were candy and nuts, we’d all have a Merry Christmas.

Fleur doesn’t regret anything in her life: not her early years at home with her loving family, not moving for the war and for her heart, not marrying Bill. She would trade nothing for her children. They’re the light of her life. But they’re grown now. They still need her, of course, but it’s nothing like parenting dependents. 

She’s more independent in recent years than she’s ever been, and she’s still finding her footing with that. Sure, it would be fun, in theory, if she could use a Time-Turner to go back and debate the merits of a chainsaw versus a shotgun as zombie killing implements, but on balance, she’d rather cherish the here and now than get lost in could-have-beens. 

Things are good now. She can make now as special as she wants. If only the unknown quantity of Tonks’s fucking Christmas gift was not harshing her vibes.

_Buzz._

Fleur grabs her phone from her bag and flips it open (it never stops feeling satisfying).

_Ice skating on Thursday? I get off early!_

The idea of trying to keep Tonks upright on the ice is an extremely jolly one indeed. Fleur agrees, charmed by being asked out on such a wholesome date. 

The charm is met, however, with a sense of grudging admiration when she realises she’s just been one-upped. _Well played, Tonks,_ Fleur thinks. Why had she not thought of cutesie seasonal dates?! She needs to up her Christmas spirit and holiday courtship game.

*

**Monday 16 December**

Skating was, predictably, stumbling and hilarious and fantastic. Arses were fallen upon. Hot cocoas were drunk. Kisses were shared. It if had been snowing softly, it would have been a date montage from a shitty movie.

But Fleur cannot allow Tonks to earn all the available Christmas points.

She still has no clue about what to get Tonks. After lunch last week, her best ideas have been tickets to a Queen cover band that’s supposed to be supremely good. It would be fun, and she knows Tonks would love it, and she’ll probably buy the tickets, but she still needs—needs!—something tangible.

It’s time to break out the big guns.

“Hi Fleur.” Teddy waves hello from the lintel of his house and beckons Fleur inside. 

“Bonjour Teddy.” Fleur smiles. Teddy has been incredibly chill about Fleur coming on the scene—all their kids have, really. And she’s glad. She admires Teddy’s advocacy and his fun-loving but subtle and sometimes quieter personality, the best parts of Remus and Tonks swirled into one sweet human. “Thank you for inviting me over.” Fleur enters the house and follows Teddy down the hall into the kitchen, where a pot of tea sits under a cosy.

“Don’t worry, it’s not Dirigible Plum,” Teddy assures Fleur, gesturing for her to sit and lifting the cosy off the pot to pour them each a cup of—

“Mmm,” Fleur smells the steamy mug. 

“Peppermint,” Teddy says. “Neville helped me plant it a while back.” He beams. 

“It is delicious,” Fleur compliments, after taking a piping hot sip.

“Thank you.” After a beat of silence, Teddy asks, “So what did you want to ask me?” 

“I need your help getting Tonks the perfect gift for Christmas,” Fleur blurts out. No reason to beat around the bush—that has never been her style.

Teddy chuckles. “Oh! I wasn’t expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?” 

“Had no idea, really.” Teddy shrugs. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what they want. We have a thing were we make each other cards—”

“I know!” Fleur gushes. “I have seen them on their mantle. You both have a way with paper.”

“Yeah. I mean, a few years ago we all—dad too, you know—decided we really don’t need stuff anymore, and we thought this would be more fun. We don’t swap Christmas lists or anything, so I’m not sure what they might want…”

“I think that is a marvellous tradition.” And she does. Fleur wonders if she and Tonks will be together long enough to establish their own. This is exactly why this year’s gift is so important. _Start things off right, Delacour!_ She could be starting a new tradition.

“We have fun with it,” Teddy agrees.

“Do you have any ideas for anything they might like, even if they haven’t asked for anything in particular?” 

“Hm.” Teddy pauses for a moment, clearly genuinely having a think, trying to help.

_Fantastic_, she thinks, _I need to get _another_ stellar gift for this kid._ Teddy deserves it, but Fleur thinks she should get Tonks squared away before moving on to Teddy. _Eye on the prize!_

“They love fashion,” Teddy thinks aloud. “Too bad we’re Metamorphmagi, or you could get them a flat of Manic Panic in different colours…”

“This is the kind of brainstorm I need!” Fleur says brightly, feeling they are off to a good start.

“What about a new pair of Docs?” Teddy suggests. “Like the ones that are silver and glittery or something?”

Fleur considers it—it suits Tonks. It would be colourful and bright and sparkly. But it would still be the kind of thing they could get themselves easily. “That is a good idea,” Fleur says, encouraging Teddy to keep spit balling. 

“Tea?” Teddy asks.

Fleur scrunches her nose automatically and feels badly, but Teddy laughs it off.

“I know, I know.. bad as chocolate or a candle, but what if you made them a blend yourself? You could get some ingredients—stuff that really reminds you of them, maybe? And make the patented Tonks Blend.”

Fleur knows she shouldn’t expect anything less from Tonks’s sprog, but she’s still staggered by Teddy’s ability to come up with an incredibly thoughtful, personalised, _special_ idea on his third go.

“That is a superb idea,” Fleur gushes. “Only…”

Teddy gives her a quizzical look and sips his tea.

“It is a perfect idea, Teddy,” Fleur assures, not wanting him to think she doesn’t appreciate the help. “But I cannot think what to use. Tonks reminds me of…” She thinks a moment, and decides to go on, despite knowing she might embarrass him—she’s a mother and knows full well how people can be about their parents’ romantic entanglements, even when they’re grown. “Of earth and warm sunshine and belly laughs and the feeling of collapsing after dancing all night.”

“Point taken,” Teddy says, “three intangible things, plus dirt. Might not make the most scrumptious brew.”

“Yeah.” Fleur sighs.

“Still though—a good idea. We should definitely use it. We could become bespoke tea brewers!”

Fleur knows Teddy is just playing, but the fact that he would suggest such a thing, even in jest, melts Fleur’s heart.

“To Delacour and Tonks-Lupins’s Bespoke Brews.” Fleur proffers her cup for a playful tea-toast.

*

**Friday 20 December**

Fleur is officially panicking. Holiday festivities kick off in mere days, and while her presents for everyone else (including a pair of vintage French sunglasses with two mismatched, amorphous shaped lenses for the fashionably avant garde Teddy) have been wrapped since the weekend, she still has nothing—nothing!—for Tonks.

Tonks came over for decorating and eggnog last night (_two can play at the cutesie Christmas date game!_ Fleur had cackled inwardly). They listened to John Denver sing carols with the Muppets and hung ornaments on the tree. Once it was decorated, Fleur Levitated her gifts under it, arranging them just so, and Tonks remarked at the immaculate wrapping jobs. They’d admired a couple of Fleur’s plump bows up close, but had not scoured the tags, not searched for hints of their own (non-existent!!!) present.

Fleur smiles at the memory, but can’t fully overcome the feeling of dread that she has had weeks to come up with a new idea, and even with some decent help from Harry and some spectacular help from Teddy, there’s still nothing for Tonks under her tree. It feels a bit empty to Fleur, despite the two dozen lavish boxes for her other loved ones.

It simply won’t do. 

Fleur claps her hands together forcefully and heads for the door. She still has the weekend, and she has some kernels of ideas. She is going out to hit the shops, and she is going to come back with the _perfect_ present. Success is not optional.

*

**Sunday 22 December**

_Success is in the eye of the beholder,_ Fleur tells herself on Sunday evening. She’s spent the better part of the weekend scouring vintage shops for unique finds, looking through engraved herbology texts to try and find the perfect blend of herbs and petals and pods that say both ‘Tonks’ and ‘palatable.’ She’s even resorted to reading asinine Yahoo Answers to try and find solutions to her gift dilemma, and all that yielded was a desire to buy herself a bunch of zero-waste kitchen supplies. People are raving about those bees wax food wraps!

But she can’t get distracted.

Saturday she came home with the Docs that Teddy suggested, and then bought the Queen cover band tickets online from bed when she gave up tossing and turning, visions of downcasts Tonkses dancing in her head.

Sunday she hits the shops again. The right gift must be out there somewhere! It exists! It _has to._ And Fleur _will_ find it. She has failed in her life, but she has never given up. She’s seeing this mission through to its end.

Fleur wanders Diagon and adjacent areas, both Muggle and magical. Handmade silver earrings? Tonks does not wear much jewellery. Books by queer authors? Tonks practically owns the store, always trying to stay on top of what queer authors have to say and also to keep the M.A.G.E. communal library well stocked. Ziggy Stardust on vinyl? Tonks owns multiple editions. Fleur is in a magical botanists, looking at various plants and trying to recall from her reading what some of the less lethal ones symbolise. But she’s not sure Tonks has much of a green thumb.

At the end of the street, the sign for Love Goods is illuminated, and Fleur heads over. She is _not_ giving up! She is just buying more of Longbottom’s Luscious Lube (‘All Natural, Home Grown Ingredients!’) while she’s in the neighbourhood.

Fleur walks past the window display, where Luna has decorated a Christmas tree with small, stocking-stuffer sized sex toys—plugs, nipple clamps and tassels, bottles of lube and toy cleaner, the works.

“Fleur! Nice to see you!” Luna greets her. “Are you here for more lube?”

“You know me well,” Fleur confirms.

Luna heads over to a shelf and grabs a one litre bottle. Neither of them bat an eyelash as Luna hands it to Fleur—why beat around the bush? Fleur cannot be arsed to make special trips to the store several times a month to by small, dainty-sized bottles. She goes through a lot of lube. Lately, Tonks has been helping. 

Tonks. If only lube were an adequate gift, but even Neville’s top shelf stuff—

“Knut for your thoughts?” Luna asks, voice even.

“I have been shopping,” Fleur says. 

“Oh?” Luna urges gently.

“Trying to find the perfect gift for Tonks.”

“Tonks is a good egg,” Luna says simply. 

“They are,” Fleur agrees wholeheartedly, which is a bit of a weak move right now, because her heart is feeling pretty dejected.

Luna moves back behind the counter to adjust the display under the glass case. “Please don’t mind me; I need to restock this, but I’m listening. Or, if you want a distraction, I could pull up that video of the old man digging up worms for his bird friend on my mobile.”

“Thank you,” Fleur says, grateful for the invitation to share. “There is not much to tell. I have bought them some things, but I do not think they are right. Not quite.”

Luna nods in understanding. “Have you thought of making them something?” she asks, before disappearing under the counter for a moment and popping back up, hands full of more valuable gear to display behind the glass.

“Yes!” Fleur cries. “That is how this all started. I was going to—” She’s about to launch into an explanation of the whole cursed sweater fiasco, but something Luna’s placing on the velvet display catches her eye—a magnificent, soft pink coloured something. “What is that?” she demands, pointing violently at the object in question, before leaning in so that her nose actually touches the glass case and leaves a smudge.

“This?” Luna asks, pulling it back out and holding it up in proper view.

“Yes!” Fleur takes it from Luna gingerly, which is difficult, because her impulse is to snatch it out of Luna’s hand, throw some Galleons at her, and dash back home to wrap it, skipping and clicking her heels all the way. She holds it close to her face for appraisal. She does not need to scrutinise it, though. This is it. She can feel it. 

It feels like victory.

“It’s—” Luna begins.

“I’ll take it!” Fleur says triumphally.

“I’ll box it up. Do you need it gift wrapped?”

“Hm?” Fleur says, not really paying attention. How can she, when all she can think of is how Tonks’s eyes will be hearts and their jaw will drop? They’ll never see this coming! Never! Fleur will not be out manoeuvred. It’s a Christmas miracle!

“Would you like me to wrap it up for Tonks?” Luna clarifies. “It’s for them, right?”

*

**Wednesday 25 December**

Normally, Fleur would be feeling a bit pooped by Christmas night. She spent Christmas Eve with Bill and the kids, just them. Tonks, Remus, and Teddy had done the same. Their kids aren’t really kids anymore, of course. But who knows how long it will be before they aren’t around at Christmas, before they move for studies or jobs or adventures? Fleur wants them to do all that, but she also wants to enjoy this while she has it.

Wednesday, though, is the main event. They all arrive at Harry and Draco’s for tea and receive a truly decadent feast that not even Molly can complain about (well, she does: apparently catered meals have less ‘soul’).

“I wish Doctor Who had a Christmas special this year,” Lily opines. 

“New Years,” Scorpius responds.

“Too far! I need more Thirteen,” Lily complains. “My body is ready.”

“Until then,” Draco says, standing up from the dining room table, laying on the anticipatory vibe thick like a big-top an emcee, “karaoke!”

“Yes!” Tonks exclaims, getting out of their seat next to Fleur so fast that their chair tips backwards. Fleur reaches out and catches it before it clatters to the floor. Tonks smiles at her. “Thanks!” They swoop down to plant a kiss to the top of Fleur’s head. “What would I do without my disaster manager?”

Fleur feels radiant at the kiss and the words. The gift angst of the last couple of weeks will have been worth it, she thinks, if the outcome makes Tonks happy.

Most of the group stampede into the living room, sprawling around on chairs and sofas and the floor—there _are _ a lot of them.

An argument breaks out about who gets first dibs. 

“It’s mine by divine right!” Tonks insists, but jovially. “You _know_ I rock the body that rocks the party. I do the Lord’s work with a karaoke machine.”

“I thought maybe some Christmas tunes first,” Draco says, smiling ingratiatingly to Molly, as though determined to demonstrate he does, in fact, understand what the holidays are all about.

“I can do Christmas!” Tonks says, quickly changing their hair so that half their short crop is red and the other is green, split right down the middle. Everyone laughs.

“Seriously,” they take the microphone from its spot next to Harry and Draco’s large television and change their hair again, growing it out into a sleek black pompadour. “Watch out, comrades,” they instruct as they search through the listing of carols available. “My hips are _dangerous_.” And the wily devil looks Fleur in the eye and winks like a fucking cad.

Tonks starts them off with Blue Christmas, which is terrible from a technical point of view, but aces from an entertainment standpoint. George and Angelina catcall as Tonks gyrates their hips and pitches their voice as low as they can. Fleur is all aflutter. When they wrap up the bluesy number, they take a bow before walking over to Fleur’s spot on the carpet, and nudging her lap with their big toe. Fleur pats her lap and Tonks settles in to watch the next song.

“I’ll do Jingle Bells!” George announces, walking up and snatching up the microphone.

They are all treated to George’s rousing rendition, which features Batman smelling and the Bat Mobile losing a wheel.

One by one, everyone who wants to has a go. After singing about Rudolph and Santa Claus and little toy trains, they start to switch to some pop tunes. 

“Yes!” Tonks shrieks, getting up to take another turn. They scroll through the options with a purpose, clearly looking for something specific rather than perusing.

From her spot behind Tonks, Fleur can’t see what they choose, but after a moment a cheeky guitar riff sounds in the room and Tonks swivels dramatically around, losing their balance a little, but carrying off the effect over all as they come to a quick stop, facing the cheering audience in the beat between notes. “You don’t have to be beautiful to turn me on!” they call, off key but captivating. George ups the ante from catcalling to wolf whistling. 

Fleur feels pinned to the spot by a sappy rush of feeling. She’s always caught people’s eye whether she wants to or not, but there’s a chasm of difference between catching someone’s eye and earning a place in their heart. This is one of the reasons she gravitated to Tonks so much—Tonks has never treated Fleur like hot shit for the way she looks: they’ve always seemed much more interested in Fleur’s life, her past, her future—getting to know what she wants to do now the kids are all out of Hogwarts—and in her bluntness. They even seem to appreciate Fleur’s competitive spirit, even if they don’t share it.

Tonks soothes Fleur’s soul with a Prince song, and after a few more numbers, Draco starts to make noise about how all the competitors should be well digested enough by now for the pie eating competition.

Fleur is ready to crush everyone under her heel, but first she remembers what Tonks said when they had lunch a couple of weeks ago. “It is Christmas. Why not sing something all together before the contest?” She picks up the controller and starts scrolling. She’s not much for karaoke herself, but this…

“Seconded,” Tonks says, in excited solidarity.

“What are we singing?” Angelina asks, looking game as ever.

“I thought,” Fleur says, finding the right listing, “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

Whoops and cries of “yes!” and “Freddie!” sound in the air. Even Remus, usually the most subdued by far, looks eager.

Tonks comes to stand by Fleur, raising two hands like a conductor to silence the room. When it’s quiet, they nod, and Fleur starts the track.

Everyone sings together, even the ones who hadn’t sung in karaoke. As a group, they are horrid. It’s a blast. Fleur doesn’t mind that the idea was Tonks’s in the first place. She hopes Tonks sees it as the nod to their social genius that it is.

When they finish, Angelina and George and Tonks milking the angsty last line for all it’s worth, Draco pronounces it finally time for Fleur show them all how to eat a mince pie.

As a concession to Molly, Draco invited her to supply the goods. Fleur suspects she’s a bit horrified at the idea of her handiwork being scarfed down without a care, but she’s known Molly long enough to know she would never dream of denying any request to provide food.

Ron, Angelina, George, Harry, Fleur, and the entire next generation take their seats, each with a full-sized mince pie before them. Tonks, who has Conjured a Ten-Gallon hat with a button that reads: ‘Fleur for Pie-Wizard Champion!’ walks around the large, oval table, casting _Incarcerus_ on all of their wrists as Draco reads the rules.

“Fastest wins,” he instructs. “This is a contest of speed, not quantity. You have to eat the whole pie. Arthur is judging.” Arthur sketches a move as though tipping his non-existent hat. “If you throw up, you’re disqualified.”

“If I vom, but re-consume said vom, does that count?” George asks to groans from the crowd.

“No puking full stop. Also, no one may interfere with the others’ pies. All pies must be consumed without the use of hands. Face, meet dish,” Draco adds, for theatrical emphasis. 

“Okay, okay!” Angelina calls. “You’re worse than Wood! Can we just do this?”

Arthur casts a modified Tempus to count up instead of to display the time.

“Ready?” Draco asks, once again the emcee. Fleur thinks he’s really found his element and Molly and Andromeda should just accept it.

The competitors nod.

“Set,” he says, anticipation high. 

Everyone at the table poises their face as close to their pies as they can without touching them.

“Go!” Draco bellows.

Fleur is biting through crust in an instant. She can hear Draco still talking—commentating. But Fleur doesn’t give any attention to that. 

She’s a veritable pie hoover. Internally, she eggs herself on. Even though she’s a great lover of all things sweet, the mince is incredibly sugary and as Fleur cleans out the centre of the plate, the tingly feeling around her teeth and throat that always accompanies A Lot of sugar starts to build. _It’s okay!_ she tells herself. _Chew, swallow, bite, repeat!_ She can hear the clattering of plates all around them as she and her competitors (ha—as if!) push their dishes around the table in attempts to eat without the use of their hands. She hears a crash that sounds like someone’s plate has hit the floor, but she just keeps going, moving from the centre of the dish outward, trying hard to get everything in the corner part at the base of the round dish. 

Fleur is starting to feel a mite unwell when she takes her last few bites, assesses her pie plate, and takes a step back from the table, calling out, “Done!” 

“Aaaaaaand Fleur, the favourite, finishes first! Can we get a judgement on the plate?” 

Arthur chuckles and approaches the plate, deeming it clean. Others, who’d continued eating in the hopes that Fleur might be sent back to clean out her dish further, groan and stop. 

“I’ll never eat again,” Harry insists after dropping to the floor, where Ron is already lying face down in his pie, moaning.

Fleur, softened though she may be lately by her feelings for Tonks, is still her sharp self (and wouldn’t want to be otherwise). She affects an exaggerated shrug and pronounces, “I could eat another.”

“Champion of champions!” Tonks calls, lifting up Fleur’s arm in a victory salute. “Winner gets a kiss!” Tonks looks at Fleur, who tries to grant permission with her eyes and a smile. Tonks presses a kiss to her mouth, and everyone (who’s not done themselves a pie injury) cheers. Fleur, spurned on, turns the tables, dipping Tonks and kissing them again. Tonks leans into it, holding their massive hat on with one hand.

Angelina whoops with a little less energy than usual from where she’s sat, hunched over, hand resting on her stomach.

When things settle down, everyone heads back to the living room for general hanging around, while the competitors complain about how painfully full they are.

Fleur lays her head in Tonks’s lap, knees curled up in the foetal position—the better to ride out the terrible bloating.

As the evening gets later, Molly and Arthur say their farewells, and it takes another half an hour of hugs and ‘Happy Christmas!’es and Draco assuring Molly they don’t need help with the washing up for them to leave.

Fleur and Tonks did presents this morning, before they came over to Harry and Draco’s. Fleur gave Tonks the gifts she’d picked up around town, but held back their _real_ present to steal the show at the end of the night.

Since they’re cuddled together on the couch, and Fleur is starting to feel sleepy, she figures it’s time to lock down another festive victory. 

“I have something for you,” she tells Tonks, sitting up next to them on the sofa and pulling a small package from her pocket before casting _Engorio_ to return it to its proper size. It’s on the small side anyway, but definitely too big for a pocket.

“We swapped this morning, you scoundrel!” Tonks admonishes, thwacking Fleur on the arm. “You shouldn’t have,” they joke in a sing-song voice, but take the box and tear into the careful wrapping.

Everyone is still chatting around the room. Small groups have formed here and there, not out of exclusion, but just organic conversations cropping up amongst certain parties, some folks moving here and there to join in. Fleur sees Luna’s eyes flick to her and Tonks from where she’s chatting with Teddy and Hermione across the room, but she quickly returns her gaze to their conversation.

Tonks open the box and, as Fleur had imagined—had hoped—their jaw drops. 

“Holy fucking shit,” they breath, apparently in disbelief, but it’s short lived. They look down at the box again, then up at Fleur before leaning over to hug-tackle her.

“Get a room!” Angelina teases from across the room.

“We’ll have to!” Tonks squeals. “You’ll never believe what Fleur got me for Christmas!”

“Not a jumper, is it?” Angelina teases.

“Not even close,” Tonks tells her.

Luna smiles, looking interested, as though she hadn’t sold Fleur the gift in the first place. Teddy looks legitimately interested and Fleur is once again filled with a rush of affection. She _almost_ feels badly about how she’s about to embarrass him, but it’s up to Tonks if they want to gush about their present. And anyway, parents have sex. What could possibly be more factual than that?

“Well?” Angelina presses.

Tonks pulls their present out of its box—the velvet-lined inside made for it to fit snugly—and holds it aloft like the sword of Gryffindor or whatever it is this crowd is always crowing about.

“Is that—”

“A crystal—”

“Dildo?”

Luna, who has a sense of occasion that Fleur appreciates, offers some light applause. Ron is as red as a tomato. Remus gives a light cough. Some of the kids are giggling, and the rest of the parents burst into howls of laughter before joining Luna in applauding. For his part, Teddy gives Fleur a thumbs up.

Once the ruckus dies down, Luna tells Tonks (and the assembled group), “It’s rose quartz. A stone of love, trust, harmony, and healing.”

“Dope! My junk is gonna be in the greatest shape of my life!” Tonks looks at the dildo appreciatively.

“Yes!” Luna agrees merrily, clearly delighted by Tonks’s enthusiasm. “It’s not just a sexual tool; it’s a healing implement,” she enthuses. “You use it like any dildo, of course, and because it’s crystal it can’t be tampered with, so there’s no vibration charm or anything; you’ll just have to use elbow grease.”

George and Angelina break into fresh peals of laughter.

“We have excellent elbows,” Tonks says, looking mischievously at Fleur.

“I never doubted it,” Luna assures, sounding light, but very earnest. “This type of crystal needs to be cleansed regularly. There’s another, smaller crystal in the box.” Tonks grabs the box again and pulls out a much smaller, whiter crystal. “Keep that one in the sun, and run it over the dildo after you use it. Obviously, you can also just keep the dildo in the sun. Actually, it’s best if you bury it in earth for a bit. Very purgative and re-energising.”

Fleur’s mind’s eye is suddenly filled with a vivid image of Tonks in the backyard with a spade, digging up their dildo so they can have a bit of fun, brushing dirt away, or better yet, forgetting where it was buried.

“I’ll draw you a treasure map,” Fleur jokes, and Tonks laughs. 

“Ten out of ten putting this on my mantle, next to the Floo powder. An object this powerful needs showing off! Luna, do you sell stands?”

“Several different stands and more elaborate cases, yes…” She trails off into some details, and after the dildo hubbub settles down, Tonks casts Fleur a sideways glance. 

“I have something else for you too,” they tell her. 

What? No! Fleur was supposed to have the last Christmas word! 

Tonks skips away for a moment, towards the kitchen, and returns with a glass jar filled with—Fleur’s not sure what.

“I made you tea! Essence of Fleur… kinda literally. Orange blossom, since you’re sharp, cloves and cinnamon, since you’re also warm, and some walnut essence, since you’re cracked and I love it.”

Fleur looks at Teddy, smirking. He shrugs at her and mouths, ‘it was a good idea!”

“Teddy helped me come up with it.” Tonks sounds proud, and Fleur gets it. Any youth that tries to help their parent’s new lover come up with the perfect gift, then helps that parents out of the same bind, then gives said lover a dildo-related thumbs up, is worth their weight in salt.

“Tonks, this is wonderful,” Fleur says, meaning it. 

Tonks beams at her. “Open it,” they say.

Fleur opens the top and smells the incredible fragrance. The idea Teddy had, Fleur hadn’t know how to put into action, but clearly Tonks did. The idea wasn’t recycled; it was used by the right person. They both came up with spectacular, special gifts. Fleur isn’t sure if this will start some kind of sex toys and tea tradition, but right now she doesn’t care. She’s competitive, yes, but not a sore loser. She can stand a draw, especially when the game’s played fair.

“Look carefully,” Tonks instructs. 

Confused, Fleur looks into the jar properly, and sees a bit of gauzy fabric. 

“What?” she whispers, touching a finger to the gauze before pulling it out of the tea. It’s a small pouch, and inside it...

“You fucker!” Fleur breathes. 

“Is that how the French traditionally say: ‘yes, I’ll move in with you?’” Tonks asks. They sit back down next to Fleur, staring at the key in the pouch. The pouch that smells incredible—like what Tonks thinks of her. It’s a lot. Fleur is touched and excited and wants to pick Tonks up and twirl them around. But she also cannot fucking believe she’s been bested after all.

“Of course I’ll move in with you, you thunder stealer.” 

Tonks grins unapologetically. “Excellent! Doesn’t have to be my place, of course. I wouldn’t mind moving into yours. Or we could get a new place. The key is just a gesture—something tangible.”

“I get it,” Fleur assures them. She drops the jar to her lap and leans her shoulder into Tonks’s. “Good Christmas,” she says, and she hopes Tonks understands what she means by that—_how much_ she means by that.

“Best Christmas,” Tonks affirms, then presses a kiss to Fleur’s hair and whispers, “I love you.”

_Well shit_, Fleur thinks, _one-upped twice over_.

“Je t’adore,” she whispers back. She’s never been so happy to lose.


End file.
